The man with the piercing eyes

"You sure?"
"Sure."
"Four?"
"Four."
"And you already have two?"
"That's right."
He looks at me as if he wants to see inside my mind. He has nice looking eyes, with a small twinkle when he looks at you for more than a few seconds. His well trimmed small beard adds to the effect.

"And where do you want to do it?"
"I was thinking of the party next month, if that's all right with you?"
"Sure."
"Do I need to bring anything?"
"Bring what you have, I'll bring my gear, and we'll be ok."
He turns around to a friend, doesn't pay any more attention to me. I am consumed by a group of friends coming in, and I don't think about our little conversation any more. This was last month's party.

I have known him for a while, but mostly from parties I go to. I know he's into a lot of stuff that I also like, not the main stream bdsm things, more the edgy and unusual stuff. He's a man of peculiar desires, so to speak. Which I admire in people, I mean, I like it when people have their own opinions and desires rather than just follow the mob. From his accent I think he's Belgian. I like Flemish, it sounds friendly, almost musical. Compared to Dutch, their words are sometimes a little off - but that of course depends on what your own native language is - and in general, the Flemish have a better control of Dutch than the Dutch.
He's also a photographer. Most of the evening and night, he's busy taking pictures of people in extravagant outfits, here on the dance floor, and later during the night, pictures of couples or groups that are involved in intense play, down in the dungeon. Sometimes he sends me some pics he has taken of me. Some pics are published on the party owners web site, but only if you've given permission - most kinksters don't want their faces on kinky party web sites. I just love photographers - for two different reasons.

Friday evening, a drizzle turns into a shower, the surface of the freeway is wet, it's hard to see the white lines, and when my car aligns with the tracks that trucks have made in the right lane, it starts to aquaplane, until I slow down enough to let the tires get a grip on the road, and I switch to the left lane. I pick up Shana, she's already waiting, she gets into the car in one of the brief moments that there's no rain. We talk, about the party, about what she and I want to do, about work, about politics. About the attitude of people towards kink in the country that she's from, a strongly religious country. I could never live in a country where religion is forced upon you. But if you're born there, it's hard to make the choice to leave.
When we get to Zaandijk, the rain has mostly stopped. The party is held at a kind of houseboat, large enough to host parties with 300+ attendants. I park the car, we walk to the door of "the Boat", as it's called. I carry two canes that wouldn't fit into my bag, I wonder what a gentleman walking his dog thinks about my canes, he frowns when we pass him, but he does say "good evening" when I greet him politely. You never know who's into kink, do you? When we enter the boat - we are early - a few people are standing between the reception desk and the doors to the dungeon and the party floor, but we're early, it's still quiet. I see him soon as we get in, talking to friends and to a fellow photographer. Then he sees me. That look again, piercing eyes, then a twinkle and a smile. He hasn't forgotten. I go to him and hug him. Shana says hello, shyly.
"Good to see you!"
"I brought my gear, we are going to have some fun tonight."
"I'm so excited!"
"It's always fun, isn't it, poking around in people. I just love it!"
I know it will happen only at the end of the evening. First, he has to take pictures, then I'm sure he has a few arrangements with subs and bottoms of various kinds, and only then, when it gets quieter in the dungeon, the party hostess and her entourage finding themselves in their favorite spot in the dungeon for some final scenes and hardcore play, then it will happen.
I help Shana to dress up. This is a fetish play party, so except bringing your whips and canes, you have to dress up nicely. I don't like to change at the party, I put on my dress at home. Tonight I'm wearing my latex sailor dress. It has a very short skirt, a deliberate choice for tonight. Bee comes into the dressing room, we hug, then she asks me to lace her up. She has a new corset, made of shiny black leather and lace, and I lace her up until she says she almost can't breath. A corset should be tight. Nothing looks as sloppy as a corset that hasn't been laced up properly. I give her two canes that I made to the specs of her dom, but I didn't know they broke up recently. I still give her the canes. Then Shana and I go up to the bar and dance space, for a general meeting and greeting of friends.

- o -

"Ready?"
"Yes, I am."
This piercing look at me, then an evil grin. About a dozen people are standing around us, some more watch from a distance. I'm sitting on a surgical table in the middle of what they call "the wet space", a space with white tiles on the floor and on the walls, showers at one end, some benches at the other. And the surgical table. I sit on a towel, my legs on each side of the table, my dress pulled up high. The spectators are right in front of me, at about fifteen feet. I don't feel embarrassed.

"Here it comes!" and he pushes the 12ga needle through my left outer labia. It hurts, but not a lot. I don't scream, I don't say ouch. Then he puts in the ring, and looks at it. Looks good, not a lot of blood is coming out. The ring is not very big, and it turns out to be hard to get the closing ball in. I try to do it myself, but I can't. After a while, he manages to put it in properly. A friend is taking pictures, she's taken about a couple of dozen so far, sometimes clicking twice because she's not familiar with the bulgy camera. As the replacement photographer, she now has the front row seat, and she seems to enjoy it.

I had been considering these piercings for a while, asking people for good piercers, but I not having found one. I prefer the setting of a private space or a party space over the sterile environment of a piercing shop, and I rather get pierced by a friend then by an unknown person. With Raelyn, it was different. She was like the goddess of piercing, at the time, everybody loved her, and two good friends were there when my labia first got pierced, in Raelyn Gallinas home. Now, at the party, a lot of friends are here, and a good friend is doing the piercings. I had decided for two labia piercings, one on each side, and nipple piercings. The labia rings are a tad smaller than the ones I had, the nipple rings are 8ga, which is huge, given the size of my nipples.

The right labia - shouldn't that be "labium", it's not plural, right? - only takes a couple of minutes. It hardly hurts, nor does it bleed afterwards. It feels good. But I know that nipples are different. The 8ga needle looks huge, when it gets out of the package and it's held up in front of me. It's hard to imagine that such a thing can go through a nipple without ripping it apart. It takes a while to do the measurements so the piercings on both sides will look more or less the same. Black dots are put on my nipples, cold fluids are used to sterilize them, or at least clean them. The black dots help the piercer to put the needle in at the right place, even when the skin is pulled and distorted. And you want the needle to be put in at the right spot, because there is no "oops, let's try again" here.

Then suddenly, a latex glove pulls out my nipple a little and the needle goes through the flesh, nice and slowly, until it sticks out at the other side. I think it went much more slowly than necessary, for obvious reasons. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but I didn't scream and I didn't say ouch. But I only just didn't.
It bleeds. Not much, but a small drop of blood is forming, and when swiped away, another. After a while, the bleeding stops. Later, it will bleed again.
I'm still sitting on the table, my legs on each side, fully exposed, a dozen people watching from fifteen feet. Sometimes they make a remark. I talk to them. I have a feeling that some barely dare to watch. Manita, the party hostess, comes closer for the last piercing.
"You want a piercing, Manita?"
"What, me? No. I love to stick needles in people, but I won't have a piercing."
"It's fun!"
"As I said, my love for needles is limited to me sticking the needle into someone."

The fourth and final needle feels thicker than the others. It certainly goes slower. I can't hold myself, I say ouch, then I scream, then I curse. People laugh, like as a relief that I finally show that it does hurt. I am not a robot. It hurts a lot. Shana looks at me. She's been standing close to me, as if she was going to catch me when I'd faint. She's relieved that I didn't. Some people come closer to have a quick look, one is a piercer himself, he takes a real close look, then helps me to get my dress back on properly without smearing blood all over it. Shana zips me up. Then, a lot of hugging is performed by everybody.

Before leaving, it's about 4am, we talk to friends at the bar, I have my final double espresso and a glass of water. Shana looks tired, she's had a busy week. And so have I. Not much later we go downstairs to the dressing room.

When we leave, he's there, in the hallway, also preparing to leave. We hug again, I thank him again, and he thanks me for the opportunity to do what he enjoys. No piercing looks this time, just the twinkle in his eyes when we say goodbye. He's a man of peculiar desires...